The Palace of Illusions
by VioAlexandru
Summary: This is about her obsessing over him. This is about him resisting. Or does he?
1. Chapter 1

**She speaks with her former lover in second person, plural. He has become a sir, a stranger that must be addressed accordingly. How heartbreaking is that?**

 **"Souvent je pense encore à vous/ Often I still think about you,**  
 **Je crois qu'un jour vous allez revenir/ I believe one day you will be back,**  
 **Vous jetter à mes genoux/ Throwing yourself at my knees,**  
 **M'implorer de ne plus vous maudire/ Imploring me not to curse you anymore,**  
 **Me dire vos regrets de nous/ Telling me your regrets about us."**

 **(Les Voiliers Sauvages De Nos Vies – Vaya Con Dios)**

* * *

I can't bear to see his handwriting anymore. The pain gets so intense, I feel like screaming. The way he writes, decisively, leaving indentations on the sheets beneath is like a trademark. His signature, firm, angular, seems to be alive, almost like an alien entity. It can still bring all those inert documents to life, his indications, his instructions, his resolutions moving the papers, moving the men, moving the entire plant forward.

It's as though he were still here and I just can't stand the sight of his handwriting anymore.

What's more, I have to white-out his name of all the pending contracts that at the moment of his departure were waiting to be signed. It's bitterly ironic that I, of all people, have to do it and cause the slow vanishing of his name, letter after letter, under the white fluid. A torment in itself. I do it, and my hand trembles and my heart is heavy, weighed down under an ocean of lead.

In his office, vacant now, people walk on tiptoes. The desk is abnormally tidy. No one dares to sit in his former chair. The poor guy replacing him is exhausted after two days. How did he manage, I wonder?

I walk like a zombie in the dark hallways and cannot find my place. I am an automaton, made of tearless, petrified pain. I try to work hard, try to concentrate, to be conscientious and reliable but I can barely keep my face collected. I wish no one addressed me, I wish I were invisible, able to move here and there unseen, unheard, only with my ear-buds on and the pain tearing me asunder.

I can't think of him in past tense because my chest gets tight, really tight, like crushed in a vice screw. I can't think of him in future tense either. There is no room for hope and that reality is just as brutal. I can only cling to the present, like an empty shell, like a mannequin.

* * *

My phone rings.

"Have you seen an invoice from Johnson?"

The voice on the other end is smooth and pleasant. Profoundly male. Unmistakable.

I search through my mind hastily, surprised by the unexpected question.

"No, no, I haven't."

"Could you please check?"

"I don't need to check, I haven't seen it."

"I think what you meant was: I will check but I don't remember seeing it."

His authority extends only partially over my position. But of course, as the plant manager, he's everyone's boss.

"Yes, sir! That's what I meant, but the words haven't come out in the right order."

The reprimand doesn't put me off. I'm slightly amused by this apparent rigidity. He had to educate and discipline too many before me.

He's an extraordinary man and an excellent leader, well respected, feared on occasions, revered on others. I'm not impressed with his position though; I'm impressed with the way he handles himself within the boundaries of that position. He has an uncanny ability to use his presence and commanding yet subtle personality to great effect. He's cocky but in a fine, aristocratic way.

And I'm impressed with what I sense that is lying beneath the manager façade, the human traits, the masculine traits.

I smile as I go searching for the damned invoice, although I know from the start the search to be futile. When I inform him about it, I do it in a manner that makes him laugh.

I always feel so good when I make him laugh…

* * *

I have these urgent documents that must be signed. His secretary says he's alone and I step quietly into the inner sanctum. He's on his cell, reading glasses on. He exudes an air of latent power and infinite remoteness. I retreat just as silently and wait patiently in the reception, like a good girl, the papers on my lap.

Seconds later, the door opens and without caring who else is around to hear, he says softly, in that tone that makes my head spin:

"I'm all yours."

I follow him in, my legs and mind on auto pilot.

I hand him the documents.

"What is this?"

He asks the question although by the time he finishes it, he has already scanned the entire sheet of paper and knows its entire content. It's just one of his numerous tests. He writes down his approval in that peculiar handwriting of his and when he gives the papers back, our hands touch for the briefest of moments.

That's where my crazy courage must have come from.

"Are you by any chance going to the Capital tomorrow?"

"No, I am not."

I nod in acknowledgement and head for the door.

"Why? What do you need?"

"I must attend a videoconference there at noon."

"With whom?"

"With Belgium."

"How will you get there?"

I shrug, nonchalantly.

"By bus."

He nods silently and I'm dismissed.

Late that afternoon, he calls me into his office. He needs some contracts, in hard copy, to study them. Then, he wants them scanned. Tomorrow, if I'm tired now. No, I'm not. I'm only too eager to please him.

Briefly I wonder if he is repulsed or touched by this involuntary display of obedient readiness.

The scan is too big for an email attachment so I put the files on my flash drive, then take it to him. He looks at it.

"Is this yours?"

"Yes. It's my own."

"Aren't you in Procurement?!"

I say something stupid that makes him laugh. I'm too affected by his presence to be intelligent. Maybe I should settle for funny instead.

"Here. Take this one."

He pulls out from somewhere a brand new flash drive, all big and shiny and smart.

I take it, muted, almost overwhelmed. On my way out, I hear him calling me back.

"Isabella…"

"Yes, sir…"

"Tomorrow morning, come here. There'll be a car ready to take you to the Capital."

Of course, that means an extra hundred kilometers to cover, but I'm not about to complain. I'm just too damn happy to have this amazing man's attention focused on me.

"Thank you, sir. And thank you for the flash drive."

The small inanimate object means nothing except everything because it's from him. I still carry it in my shoulder bag, unopened, to this day. It's my porte-bonheur, my lucky charm.

* * *

I dress more carefully the next day. I must look presentable to our bigger and better corporate brothers, mustn't I?!

I'm wearing black pants with black boots and even to my own derisive eyes, I look alright. And we do intersect in the dim, empty corridor, just he and I, like in one of those strange, coincidental circumstances from Almodovar's movies. And although I rise my eyes only long enough to steal a glance at him and give him "good morning", and although he's equipped for inspecting the plant with all sorts of stuff that hinder his sight, I can still see him checking me out.

I'm not a beauty, never was, never will be. Not even remotely coquette. But there are moments, sometimes and only sometimes, when I feel extraordinary about myself. And right then and there, as I unlock the office door, for short, glorious seconds, I'm completely drunk with my womanly power.

Before long, it's time to leave for the Capital. I'm agitated but it is not unpleasant; a little regretful for having to spend the day away. I'm waiting for him in the dimly lit corridor to alight from his car and enter the building, in order to remind him of the promised vehicle. He has so much on his mind, that sometimes it's necessary to jog his memory.

"Are you waiting for me?"

He's preoccupied and walks fast. I can barely keep up.

"Yes, sir. I wanted to remind you…"

"Haven't forgotten," he interrupts, almost sternly.

He waves me to follow him into his office where he tacitly hands me back my contract binder from the previous day.

"Which driver do you want?"

"I don't know…"

"X?"

"No."

"Y?"

"No." Then the devil takes over again.

"The person I prefer is not available, I'm afraid."

"Who, then?" he asks, the question invigorated by sudden interest. "Z?" (On vacation)

"No."

"W?" (Doesn't come daily)

"No."

He stops, puzzled. The options are over.

Before I step out, I say with an enigmatic, little smile.

"I leave you to speculate."

As the door closes, I hear him exclaim.

"Ah! Got it now!"

I indulgently shake my head in disbelief as I walk away. My behavior is so bold, it's getting almost absurd. I must be completely out of my mind.

* * *

I'm still dreamy and airheaded as I walk back home that evening. My thoughts revolve around him like an insect inexorably attracted by a light bulb.

It's dusk, the hour of unreality, hovering between day and night and I'm crossing the railway, as I do it every day. It's almost abandoned, so very few trains are passing through this forgotten town nowadays, and the grass has grown tall and untamed. There are many wild flowers, yellow and white, dandelions and red poppies blossoms, full of life, loud crickets and silvery trails left by the abundance of snails. In the morning, my feet in sandals get wet with dew.

Now it's the only time of the year when this railroad has beauty and mystery, when it's not just a desolate scenery of sad, useless iron. In a few weeks from now, all this vegetal exuberance will be dried up, withered, the weeds will have outgrown the flowers, stone and iron will have reclaimed their rightful domain.

So I'm crossing the railway and the rusted tracks are shining red, bloodlike in the oblique, ethereal light of the setting sun and I think of that as the precise moment when I fully realized that I'm in love with him.

Thinking back, I admit to myself that I've always liked him. From my first day on the job. His jokes and rebukes are witty, always with a trace of irony, a tactic perhaps to keep the herds in check. Always so clever. I liked him when he was funny and I liked him when he was mad as hell and slammed us all against the walls. He is magnificent when mad.

I reach home all dizzy with my sudden understanding. I'm restless, governed by sort of pleasant disquietude and I feel this urge to do something impulsive, unusual, out of the ordinary. Without giving much thought, I text him:

" _Our gracious thanks to his kingship for the carriage arrangements!"_

He is known to always answer his phone, even to the most common of employees but I don't expect a reply in this particular situation. I just had to act in some way, subconsciously perhaps, in order to mark, to celebrate this moment so special to me. So when, merely instants later, the answer comes, I'm overwhelmed with sheer emotion.

" _You're welcome; the carriage will be available on other occasions, too. But between you and me, the kingship has other kind of duties, you are too gentle."_

I'm assailed by so violent, so terrible a hope that my head reels. I feel all the brakes of discipline getting loose.

" _His kingship is too modest. And since he's the busiest in the world, he should receive thanks, because no matter concerning his subjects is too small for his personal attention."_

" _I thought you were in Procurement, not in Sales… What are you trying to buy with these marvelous words?"_

Obviously, I cannot leave it at that.

" _Well, I wasn't good enough for Sales, they turned me down, but Procurement suits me just fine, it's closer to...things. As for my intentions…I want to amuse you. I hope I won't turn into the court buffoon though._

 _Or perhaps there's more to it. I let his kingship to sleep on it. I most surely will."_

There's no reply after that. I got more than I'd ever hoped for, anyway and I feel wonderful! I'm like a musical instrument made of purest silver; I feel my body humming, a clear and crystalline sound. Hesitantly, the shape of love rises, trembling, lonesome, strange and shy, wild and quick, its deep glow in my veins and it embraces me fiercely, as if escaped from a wintry exile.

I suddenly change, become of a wild innocence. All is erased, experience, worries, worn patterns under my footsteps. I'm in love! Completely corrupt by love and not corrupt at all. I feel that I'm alive, I feel it in my whole being, in my breath, in my blood!

I have purpose again and for now it does not matter to me what he may think and what he may say about it, I let myself fly and run and throw myself into it without a thought, without a moment of consideration. I'm happy and carefree and I'm neither cautious nor afraid, even if he laughs and makes fun of me, as long as he lets me fool around near him, in his shadow, in his care.

* * *

He greats me now with a sort of "ma'am" instead of "good day" and although that's the only – subtle – change I notice, I feel that a bond has developed between us. In a strange way, I feel we silently relate to each other. It's either that or I'm completely nuts.

* * *

 _In the palace of my chimeras, the thread of my fantasies begins to unravel._

 _It has high ceilings, tall, narrow French doors and crystal chandeliers. It's almost always dimly lit and has a medieval gloom about it. Its park has long cobblestone alleys and intransient, secular arbors. There are wrought iron balconies and soft, diaphanous curtains that are undulating in the wind._

 _It's beautiful in his melancholic air, in its eerie loneliness that is beyond any lamentation._

* * *

The phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans and almost disinterested, I pull it out. I'm not myself today, he hasn't texted back and even worse, he took two days of vacation. That's almost as rare as snow in the desert. The day is vapid and it drags and I miss him like hell.

But then again everything changes in a beat, 'cause it's him. My heart flutters yet my voice is strained when I answer. He immediately senses my distress.

"What happened?"

"Nothing…"

By the way he sounds, he's in his car. In a good mood, too.

"Who's got you upset? What is the matter?"

I bumble again, feebly.

"No one. Nothing… It's just…" I stop.

He pauses too then suddenly understands.

"Oh, I see… Sorry, haven't had time to reply. But I like what you write, it amuses me, it diverts me! I'm gray enough to take it as…"

He laughs with a little uneasiness then stops. Has he sensed the impending gaffe?

Nevertheless, it's too late. The laughter and the presumed ending of his unfinished phrase have made damages already. He has stopped but the stab is there, painfully pulsating with every heartbeat.

He doesn't take me seriously.

"If you liked it, you'll find another sample on your desk."

My voice is so frail I don't think he heard me, because he goes on, unperturbed.

"Anyway, I called to remind you to send me those reports we've talked about."

Of course I'll send the reports. I haven't forgotten. It doesn't matter that I'm unable to put two digits together because I'm consumed with thoughts of him. It doesn't matter that I can't stand to sit at the computer and assemble the data because all my skin itches in wait for Monday and for him to return.

Of course I'll send the reports. I confirm it loudly, using the stupid office jargon and sounding awfully intimidated. He sounds still amused while saying goodbye.

"Talk to you soon. Kisses."

The affectionate goodbye alleviates my sorrow a little but I know that's only temporarily. I start pacing through the office, agitated and grateful for being alone. He laughed at me and as this brusque realization sinks in, my heart sinks too.

I haven't been in love in so many years... Book characters, maybe, wishful projections of my imagination, sure, but not with a man made of flesh and blood. I don't know anymore how to act properly in this situation.

Abruptly, all his words seem distorted; there has been benevolence in his voice, but hasn't it been inextricably mixed with a touch of amiable contempt, too?!

I've never pursued a man. Not this openly, anyway. The hunt is a man's privilege and robbing him of it it's not only tasteless, it's almost vulgar. I'm annoyed and slightly disgusted with myself for not being able to restraint, for exposing myself so unequivocally. I've always admired stoicism in others. The ability to repress your emotions, to be indifferent to pain or pleasure, to submit without complain to any unavoidable necessity. Why can't I be stoic?!

Besides, being so forward could be risky… I don't know the world of men, do they really discuss women?! He doesn't seem like the type that kisses and tells, though, the type that brags about a woman falling for him. He's smarter, has more finesse.

No one is looking at me oddly so far, so he must have been discreet.

I'm pondering whether to take the note off his desk or not. Finally, I decide to leave it. Come what may…

It's nothing much. Just a love letter.

* * *

 _I feel him getting near, his presence behind me, broad as a bear, heat emanating from him as from a sizzling volcano. There he stands, strong, secure, calm, in pure,_ _vast_ _waiting yet waiting for nothing in particular._

 _I do not turn around._ _I just stand in complete stillness and gratefully immerse myself in his presence._

 _Then he speaks and I'm done for._

 _His voice, his voice is transcending all simplification and summation. Silken, careful, controlled, beckoning without actually beckoning._

" _What do you want?"_

 _The whisper is like a physical caress, like a hot touch on the skin._

 _Then again, deeper:_

" _What do you want from me?"_

* * *

What do I want? What do I want?!

I want to bask in his attention like a lizard in the sun. I want to abandon myself to him. I don't want to have to think, to plan, to measure, to evaluate. I want to be allowed to exist near him and nothing more. I want to be spoiled rotten. I want to be allowed to rest.

I want to haunt his thoughts like he haunts mine.

I want him to admit I'm special to him, at least in some insignificant, infinitesimal measure.

And yet, I want nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

Monday finally comes and as we're pulling into the parking lot, I notice that his car is missing. That's odd and I instantly feel the bad omen. Where is he? He never skips a day, never takes more than a week of vacation. No matter how early we arrive in the morning, he is already there. Always the last to leave. Simply indefatigable.

Just how bad an omen, I was yet to find.

Some unpleasant chores that I have been postponing long enough are getting due at home and I take the rest of the week off to solve them. Or at least that's what I have been saying to myself. The truth is, I'm a little ashamed of my newfound, silly audacity and I feel I should give it some space. Let it breathe.

Let him miss me.

It's Friday afternoon, my self-imposed exile almost over. I haven't seen him in four days but it feels like much, much longer. My phone rings. It's only this colleague who's eagerly willing to share the hot news.

"Have you heard? The boss has resigned…"

"Which boss?" I ask wearily. We have so many.

"Mr. Cullen."

I freeze with perplexity. It's like a blow in the solar plexus. In the first moment I feel only the shock. Then a wave of hot panic. With great effort I manage to voice the obvious question.

"Why? What happened?"

"No one knows."

Something inside me fractures. I simply cannot believe it.

It is impossible, I must be dreaming, it is absolutely impossible!

Briefly, I wonder if it's because of me. But no, I'm not that important while his job is. He could easily solve this little romantic complication if he had to, without resorting to such drastic measures. Just a passing thought. No, it's not me.

I can't wrap my mind around it, I can't conceive the implications. Little by little, as the thoughts gather, I feel the fissure inside perpetuating, getting wider, deeper.

Bang-bang, my baby shot me down…

* * *

On the following Monday, quite predictably, the rumor market is sky-high. Some even say he may go to jail. Ha. Speculations, lies, old animosities swiftly rise to the surface, suffocating the grapevine. It's almost unbearable. I feel very empty, dull, still bewildered.

In addition, I find out that this is going to be his last day.

"Why" is the omnipresent question. No one knows; he hasn't confided in anyone.

Later, the gossip will be getting more sense. That his relationship with the higher management went sour. That he wasn't docile enough, malleable enough. That something nasty was being prepared for him and he found out.

One of the facts of corporate life is that no one is indispensable.

So he chose to leave on his own terms, with no compensations but with his dignity intact. In principle, I understand his decision but at the same time everything inside me is revolting against it.

He chose to leave them high and dry. Leave all of us high and dry.

Including me.

* * *

I'm waiting for my turn to say goodbye. I sit where I've always sat, right in front of his door, on the fax machine cupboard and when he opens the door and sees me, has this small recoil motion.

"Whose side are you on?" he softly admonishes the secretary then makes room for me to enter.

I don't get what's behind that reproach to the secretary. I'm too numb and emotive and don't know what to say. I wish I were able to utter the million things I have been thinking about, but I can't. I try out a joke instead, although inside my head is only this useless mantra on repeat: "Please, don't go, please don't go…"

I wish he told me it's all a ruse, a scam, a subterfuge to obtain something, more money, more power, more something from the gods that own us. But he doesn't say it. He looks pallid, tired and burdened and I can tell it's all very difficult for him: ending all connections, handing over his car, his laptop, liquidating the expense account… enduring the long procession of people wanting to express their regret, wanting to say goodbye.

"I'd lie if I told you it's not hard. It is."

"Maybe you'll be back. I have a feeling you'll be back…"

He doesn't say anything and that silence equivalents to a denial, or at least to a doubt. He only smiles, and there are tenderness, irony and a shadow of sadness in it.

I whisper:

"But it's not fair… you'll be leaving with this huge emotional weight… all the regrets you leave behind, the emotions of all those caring about you..."

He shrugs. I'd like to tell him that I don't care about other people. Above and beyond all, it's not fair to me!

What arms did he twist that they let him leave so quickly? He's management; even in case of a resignation, he is bound to stay for thirty days. A lot could happen in thirty days. A change of mind. A turn of events. A proper goodbye, at least.

He says some very nice things next. One of which describes me as a 'marvel'. Later, to my dismay, I can't remember any of them…

We are quickly running out of time; the sand in my ephemeral hourglass has trickled all the way down.

I don't want to leave his office, I don't want him to leave at all, I want to stay right there and talk to him endlessly while he listens with amused tolerance and perhaps only half-careful to my words… I want to get to know him better, I want him to know me, I want to unravel to him slowly, I want to amaze him, to render him speechless, to blow up his mind…

But people are waiting outside the door, claiming a piece of him, demanding to see him one more time. It's almost after-hours and he's just so very tired and too greatly affected.

He nears me, saying all the appropriate things, like 'success' and the kind. All so suitable and right and so very politically correct. The hug that he gives me though is heartbreaking and perhaps more significant than our entire awkward, crippled conversation.

I exit, my face rigid, masklike under other's scrutiny. I'm so fucking tough. I haven't cried.

Only this bitter old lady acridly remarks that I've "spent quite a while in there…"

* * *

I'm not the only victim of his ineffable charm. Days after his departure, there are still women in tears. "Wasted", as some guy ironically labelled them, completely clueless to my being one of them. I should have known, or maybe I have known. Nevertheless, I'm viscerally jealous.

I don't pity them, these tearful women. I have no sympathy for them. I'm better; I'm superior since I can keep up appearances. Until in the privacy of my home, at least, where, on the evening of his last day, after our disconsolate farewell, I get really drunk. I get drunk and cry my heart out, out of helplessness and despair.

I can't call him. I have no reason and no right to call him. What could I possibly tell him?! That I'm disoriented, as if I were in a deserted train station where I got off by chance? That I'm disconcerted, bereaved, lost without him? That I'm weak and lifeless?

All of it sounds stupid and trite but it is also true.

I can only text him. It's more impersonal or should I admit to myself that it's easier for me to depersonalize, to become someone else, someone who is more comfortable hidden behind written words?

I text him but his answers are monosyllabic, few and far in between. Until they disappear altogether. So I text him some more and I wait and wait for his replies and his silence makes me restless and the waiting is corrosive to my nerves and I'm beginning to believe that all things in life are hopeless and in vain.

I try everything in my texts: I try funny, I try sad, I try inquisitive, I try reflective. I try out stupid motivational discourses, I try supportive remarks, I try pleading, I try begging.

Nothing. He's an inexpugnable fortress.

I'm like this maddened sparrow that keeps hitting itself against a window. Do you know that hollow, horrible sound, of a bird hitting a window?!

Why doesn't he reply? Why does he refuse dialogue with me? How come he doesn't see that the simplest of his replies would throw me over the moon? Why doesn't he get this atavistic need that I have to hear from him? Does he enjoy tormenting me? Does he have a good laugh on my expense with someone else? Why doesn't he tell me to stop and leave him be? I told him I would if he said so. Is he too much of a gentleman to do it? Expects me to realize it by myself eventually? Does he try to spare me the cruelty and awkwardness of an open refusal? Am I that naïve? Am I delusional, confusing kindness for interest? Am I suffering out of stupid egoism alone?

These questions squirm inside my head like coiled snakes, poisoning me, stealing away my peace of mind. A little more, and I'll turn into ashes.

Why does he resist, instead of plunging himself into it? I could be mistaken about him, I could have misinterpreted his signs but I am rarely wrong in these sensitive, intuitive matters. It is as if something within him is suddenly closed up and he doesn't want to let anything or anyone in.

A little defiance has finally elicited a response one day. Formal, cold, polite, it could have been construed by a more lucid reader as an elegant "fuck-off". He's even signed it, unnecessarily, in his customary style, with his initials only, which has always made me think of Hannibal Lecter.

Why would someone want to sign a text?!

* * *

 _His voice is almost toneless._

" _I'm too old for you, you know…"_

" _No, you're not. You're 49."_

" _I'm still too old."_

" _I think you may be misinformed about my age."_

 _I can hear a dry, ill-boding smile in his voice._

" _I'm acutely aware of it, actually."_

 _Suddenly, it's getting very, very cold inside my palace…_

* * *

Days have passed. Then weeks. One day, this guy walks into the office. Installs himself comfortably in a chair. Starts talking with superiority and emphasis, like one of the few fortunate to be still in contact with the great man. How he saw Mr. Cullen for a tea. I don't know if that's an euphemism for a coffee or for a drink, but he keeps repeating it, like it's this good joke. How Mr. Cullen looked good and serene, and he was almost happy. Hey, y'all, did you know that Mr. Cullen attended a wedding last week-end?!

The pain wakes up inside me with renewed ferocity every time I hear about him, like an evil Jack-in-the-box. Can't stand to listen to any more of this but I can't make myself to leave the room either. I need to hear it, like an addict needs his dose. I'm keeping my eyes stubbornly focused on the computer screen but I don't miss a word this short, annoying guy is saying. Suddenly, intensely, I feel a wave of undeserved resentment toward him. With his false aura of self-importance, he seems to me almost as ridiculous as a dwarf performing at a king's palace.

I finally exit and go hide in an empty office to clear my head. I'm bleeding monstrously again, my heart squeezed by an invisible, unmerciful fist. Oh, dark, tentacular disappointment!

He's fine and more than fine while I'm going through The Caudine Forks.

He's rumored to have got a new job in a far corner of the country but he might as well be on a different continent. I'm at this point in life when all I feel is exhaustion and every "must" and "have to" around only oppress me more. What lies ahead seems like a dusty, weary road, devoid of joy. I'm tired and my tiredness goes in circles, deepened a little more with each cycle, stretched toward infinity, unending, like my daily commute. He gave me life and solace; he was my shore full of respite.

He is as lost to me now as if he never existed.

* * *

It's May and then it's June and the fields seen from the car's window turn greener and greener, opulently fed by the constant, incessant rain. This summer is getting something putrid, fetid in it from all the water, like the repellent fascination of a swamp. I see houses gliding past, villages, churches, men on bicycles, children playing in the dust, chickens and goats… It's like an end and a beginning, future and past mingling. Life. And then again the even contours of the plain, the sky arching above, eternal, immovable.

I have begun to stifle my forlorn endeavor, my silly little text messages are getting more tamed, more "rarefied". Still, every day is a fight with myself, my soul and mind constantly under the siege of an unwanted feeling of irrevocability. I have been getting used to it, I guess, in a way… After all the contradictory hopes and final defeats, maybe it was time to resign... To sober up. To get stoic, as I wished.

But every now and then, out of the blue, I have this moments when, with brief but intense clarity, I remember his features, his ways, his voice. In my mind's eye, I can see him walking on these dark hallways as he used to, I sense his presence like the one of a welcomed ghost, as if he were nearby, pleased, smiling. I evoke my short-lived, volatile happiness and think how we're just sparks in an arbitrary wind. The wild sailings of our lives, indeed.

And in those moments instantaneously, I get weak with missing him. I get weak with this "exasperation", with this debilitating frustration that even gone, he is still holding me in his power.

The one that got away…

I know the sorrow will fade away eventually, leaving me without any lament and without expectation, without desire or pain. Only with the deep peace of the inevitable, only with the fatalistic calm of the helplessness. There's nothing that remains serious for long, isn't it?! Nothing that escapes to the engulfing folds of oblivion, to the grinding habit of time. Le temps qui nous guérit de tout…

And as we drive in our sad, daily commute, and the car heads into the sunset, I feel this strange, indefinable desire to murmur his name, like Nick Nolte Barbra Streisand's in that movie.

"Mister Cullen… Mister Cullen…"


	2. Chapter 2

" **Je rêve que vous allez m' écrire/** **I dream that you will write to me,** **  
Que le remords vous a rendu fou/** **How your remorse has driven you mad,** **  
Que sans moi vous ne pouvez plus rire/** **How without me you can laugh no more,** **  
Que loin de moi vous n' êtes plus rien du tout/** **How far from me you're nothing at all."**

 **(Les Voiliers Sauvages De Nos Vies – Vaya Con Dios)**

* * *

Half of year has passed since he left and people are still talking about him. This new guy who came in his place is a nut. He doesn't give us any heat in the offices in November. Mr. Cullen would have done it a month ago. Birthdays' celebration habit has died since Mr. Cullen has left. His detractors still haven't settled, he is still defamed, still subject of their gossip. Some say he is still the one running things, through the people loyal to him, but things are too chaotic around here to be true.

As for me…I'm stuck in the same emotional limbo. I think of him still, much more often than I should or it would be wise for my welfare. I wish I had more memories of him. The very few, I play them in my mind until they get all worn-out, just useless rags.

The first time I saw him was five years or so ago when I was still working at the plant in my home town. Five minutes of walking. A fucking paradise. The factory had just been closed and I was among the very few they kept. Three people in the whole building, each in his own office. Quite scary and sad. I was in Accounting but I did pretty much everything else. Answering the phone, solving correspondence, serving as a protocol assistant for meetings. The massive layoff happened during a serious work conflict and meetings for negotiations were a common occurrence.

I was serving coffee and refreshments during one of those meetings when I noticed a man with an aloof and slightly enigmatic air sitting near my boss at the time. I did not know him. Later I asked who he was and my boss told me his name. I knew him by reputation and I was familiar with his peculiar handwriting. I often made payments for the suppliers of our sister-plant, which was being managed by him. His approval was on each of their invoices.

I remember thinking back then that he looked remarkably-if not revoltingly!-young for his achievements.

* * *

One morning Mr. Cullen summoned my colleague and me, to his office. It was still early, our direct boss wasn't there yet. He was terribly angry about something, something that was wrong with the plant, something he had not foreseen. We needed to purchase this item urgently but on such short notice, we didn't know from where and in which conditions so we took the blow of his anger in full.

How can someone be so angry so early in the morning?!

During the discussion, I was taking notes when my pen ran out. He noticed. He's always been an acute observer – seemingly able to take in everything and to be quick about the decoding of what he saw. And so he interrupted his train of speech and asked me with crushing sarcasm: "Shall I give you one from me?!"

I wanted to retort and tell him that the pen ran out because I had been using it, not because I contemplated the walls chewing on its end but he was too angry for me to risk being impertinent. There was a slight whiff of danger about him; I could not anticipate his reaction so I kept my mouth shut.

I scoured all Europe and found him the damned product. But I was left thrilled and a little afraid by that display of fierceness.

* * *

In any company that respects itself and its employees, there is this annual gathering, intended to bring people together, to reinforce the corporate bonds, to give each individual the sense or the illusion that he's someone important, valuable for the organization. It is basically, a circus, during which those without much self-consciousness are happy to eat and drink for free and the snobbish type proclaim ostentatiously that they just want to split as soon as possible.

I had never attended such an event before, so I didn't have an opinion formed yet. Theoretically, I saw it as a work obligation and secretly, as an opportunity to observe people in a different environment, to see how their behavior changes when they don't feel constrained anymore.

It was an outdoor event, the weather fine, the auspices favorable for a successful outcome. I got bored quickly enough and started to look around. From time to time, I searched him with my eyes. He was always far from the crowd, circling it, like a shepherd, keeping an eye on things, entertaining the expats. A watchful guardian.

"How does he stand the pressure," I wondered, ""of knowing that so many people depend on him?!"

There was a lectern prepared, a microphone and I expected there would be speeches later on. I became curious as a cat, interested to see how he would express himself in front of an audience. Of all the 'notabilities' there, I was only interested in how he would perform such a task. I sensed it wasn't something he would agree to do gladly. But my curiosity remained unsatisfied. Until the time of my leaving, there weren't any discourses.

There were still the early days. I was blissfully oblivious.

* * *

One day he stopped me in the hallway:

"Please send me the report on the general repair and maintenance expenses."

"I don't have a report about general repair and maintenance."

To which he replied quietly and a little mischievously, with that stately voice of his:

"You don't have it _yet_."

* * *

I don't think he liked me much at first, because he only growled at me. I could not make out a single word he said. I filled in for his secretary a couple of times, and he would exit and on his way out, let me know where he was going and for how long. And I would remain behind, looking puzzled at the closed door, wondering what the hell had he said? He might just as well have spoken in Chinese.

One morning, I had just arrived and he said something to me as we passed each other in the corridor. An instruction of some sort, which I could not decipher. When I failed to perform it, he came into my office and said from the door, gruffly, angrily:

"I told you to bring me the Comes contract!"

I responded in the same huffy tone:

"I couldn't understand any of your words!"

His tone mollified.

"You're still sleepy, that's why!"

I took the contract to his office and he punished me for my lack of good hearing by having me counting days on the calendar, to establish when the delivery term was due. He wasn't angry anymore. Just quiet and pleasant.

It became easier, later on. Either I began to understand Chinese overnight, or he finally took mercy on me and started to address me normally.

* * *

He once asked me to retrieve a problematic invoice from Accounting, which had to be returned to the supplier. I couldn't find it, because he had given it for safe keeping to another colleague. He had forgotten what he had asked from whom. I couldn't deliver and that bothered me; I appeared as ineffectual to him, although it was partially his fault. That also generated a bit of an awkward moment with the supplier, he had been put in an unfavorable light to that person, too.

I wanted to set the things straight, so when I caught the right moment, I tried to reproach him his inconsistency. You have to be in agreement with yourself, coherent and constant if you want your men to perform well. He was searching for something through the documents in my office, without asking for my help. We were alone, so I broached the subject. He sensed where I was getting at and didn't allow me to continue. With his back at me, he only half-turned and asked sternly:

"Has it been solved?"

"Well…yes." I admitted grudgingly.

"Very well then."

And that was it.

* * *

My cell rang one day:

"Where are you?"

"At the gates."

A pause. Then the bursting:

"You went there to smoke, God damn it!"

He swiftly switched his next tonality one hundred and eighty degrees, now just pure, dripping honey. He's a master puppeteer, alright.

"Promise me you will quit smoking. Do you promise?"

Oh, anything, I'd promise anything, milord, if only I could have you back…

* * *

My current boss is young, ambitious and comes from money. That gives him an insolence that serves him rather well in his hierarchic climbing. He can afford, in more ways than one, extravagant gestures, like inviting a whole floor of people to lunch for his birthday.

At the restaurant, a seat was still empty. Mr. Cullen had been invited too but he would join us later. Unaware of my own expectations, I was unconsciously waiting for him to come and in the meanwhile, got bored out of my mind by my table neighbor, a chatter-box of a girl who kept prattling about her speed motorcycle. And how she couldn't have kids yet, because she hadn't had enough of her riding. "Here it is someone who hasn't faced any real problems so far," I said to myself.

There were signs even then but I failed to decipher them. I could have put the time I had with him to much better use... I thought that my interest in him was purely social and that explained the disappointment I felt when he didn't show up at the restaurant, after all.

The rest of the lunch was a drag as I had to politely dissimulate interest in other people's holiday destinations. And I suspected that, by refusing to come, he had tried to put my boss back in his place.

* * *

Ironically, I learn that he is now commuting, too, on a weekly basis. I picture him often during his six-hour driving. Does he get lonely? Is he constantly on the phone? Does he get bored with the stupid chatter on the radio?

Does he ever think of me while passing through my town?

When I can't remember how he looks, I have a couple of pictures I've found on the communal partition of the server, taken at some event. He's at the end of a table, checking his phone. The pictures are rather poor, but serve their purpose, to remind me of his features.

When I can't remember how he writes or how he expresses himself, I read old emails or documents that are bearing his annotations.

But his voice, his quiet, incredible voice I'm beginning to forget…

* * *

I'm confronting with an unexpected and let's just say…out of sync hostility from another member of his unofficial fan club. I'm getting this negative vibe from her; the woman simply resents me.

I have never bothered her, I haven't done anything to displease or prejudice her. She's head of Quality, a prominent figure, important for the organization. I'm nobody. Why hate me?! Why so sudden?

The reason could only be him; I suspect her intuition warned her. But I wonder what triggered it, this unconscious, sudden awareness? I'm so fucking discreet I'm almost nonexistent!

It must have been that day when he requested I order a new cupboard to put my bag, so that he won't see my cigarettes pack anymore. I'm in Procurement, I have a savings target, so I avoided the expense by moving my desk around. She witnessed it. Had I been wiser, I would have realized I needed to fake annoyance at his demand more convincingly.

She has been tendentious ever since. Always throws sweet little comments when she sees me.

I got flowers for my birthday and I kept them on my desk until they withered. She inquired about the occasion. Asked me frontally how old I am. Women don't ask about their age unless they are making comparisons and she's gathering information, alright. Know your enemy and you shall be victorious! I told her and she, with a surprising lack of ability, 'cause she's smart, made an entire spectacle of pointing out that she is nine years older than I. I think she swallowed the missing 'only' in the last second.

What's your point, lady? That you're still young? That you're closer to his age? That you're closer to his league? That you are well accomplished professionally whilst I am not? Well, no argument there!

She was among those he favored, so much so that he gave her a ride each morning. She's lucky like that, to have had the opportunity to see him drive, something I, inexplicably and desperately, wanted for myself. Rumor has it that they were more than just friends. I don't believe it or maybe I refuse to believe it. Or maybe I'm just basically naïve.

Anyway, she's a tad late. It's ridiculous to compete over a man who is not even here anymore. I don't want to compete with her, on any level; we aren't homogeneous enough for that. I find the idea boring. I see her fussing around the new guy. Maybe she likes men with access to power. Maybe her interest will shift on him and she will be off my back.

But she pisses me off, nevertheless. She's divorced and likes to be called "miss". I call her "madam" every chance I got. She's so hypocritically humble and so excessively polite that it makes me sick. No one's that perfect unless they aren't genuine.

She once complained to someone about her son having such a hairy back that he needs to shave it. "Maybe he took it from his father," that person offered.

"Hm... Who remembers that?!" was the answer.

No shit! You can't remember that kind of a detail about the man who fathered your child?! What was it then? Immaculate conception?! Even if you hated his guts, even if he was the biggest bastard in the world, you would still remember. Perhaps even more so.

So, fuck off, madam! Go drown yourself in your own sorrow and let me deal with mine!

However, when she will attack me again with personal questions and transparent maneuvers, I will be ready. The quiet little mouse will be ready!

No, no, I won't turn this into a cat fight. I'll just use self-irony. That should be enough to disarm this modern Virgin Mary and keep her at bay.

* * *

Half of year has passed yet nothing has changed.

Yes, I think of him still. And although there are intervals when I successfully manage to abstain myself, I still text him. A couple of times a week, maybe more often.

And once in a blue moon, he answers.

I try hard not to abuse his time and availability and I do realize that I'm utterly inopportune on occasion. The hungrier I get, the more aggressive I become and that sort of determination can easily turn into desperation and neediness. It's unattractive and it gets me nowhere-if there's somewhere to get, that is. And I want so much to appear as faultless to him!

But I've asked for his permission to write and text to him. He said yes. Still, many a time, I feel like a toy he picks off the shelf only when he's in the mood for it or when it's convenient. Whenever he deigns acknowledge me, it feels amazing and I'm insanely happy. As though I worth something, as though I've made a difference. And then he ignores me again and the pain flares and it's just a never-ending carrousel. It can only end in emotional wreckage.

If that hasn't happened already.

He is used to women's devotion, I'm sure. The havoc his leaving caused among my female colleagues leaves me little doubt. Sometimes, when his silence upsets and exasperates me, I suspect that's the only reason he's keeping me around. I make him feel good about himself, I'm just a boost to his ego. Every time I express intentions of disappearing from his digital life, he reacts. He stopped me each time so far and although I didn't do it on purpose, it happened several times; I see a pattern beginning to form.

He doesn't express any feelings, save for occasional gratitude at getting my texts. He's always glad to have received a sign from me. But that's it. He keeps his emotions forever hidden. He doesn't miss me, he doesn't think about me. Sometimes I imagine I see something between the lines but as a general rule, his messages are non-committing and irreproachable. He always wishes me a good day, a good week-end, a good whatever. My oh-so-prosaic engineer!

And there's of course, the omnipresent argument of him being busy, which has started to grow weary on me. How much of his time is really necessary to compose a reply? How tight his schedule is that he can't spare a minute to write back and buy me a couple of days of tranquility?

I know he is occupied with rebuilding his career and proving himself to the world once more. He's working now on a bigger, more important industrial platform than the one he's left behind and the stakes are high. He's into his work body and soul, he loves it, he loves the challenge just as much as he needs it. Yes, I know he's fiercely competitive. I know he's busy and tired and has a real life. But so has everyone else.

Maybe I'm searching excuses for him. Maybe I'm seeking reasons to hope for myself.

Or maybe he just doesn't care enough.

In that case, is he worthy of my affection? Of all my secrets?

But then again, am I not contradicting myself here? Haven't I said I want nothing? Haven't I declared myself satisfied with the permission to "fool around" alone? He granted that. Why am I now starting to demand more?

Because it is in the nature of love to be incongruent.

Sometimes, when I'm temperate and reasonable, I reckon he doesn't hide his feelings-if any!- for spite or even on purpose – it's just the way that he is. And I also have to admit that at times, his messages provoke me to know myself; he takes me on a journey of the mind, as much as I try to take him on a journey of the heart.

And let's assume that eventually, I will find this whole situation demeaning. Let's say that common-sense and pride and self-esteem will get the upper hand and I will step back. What will I do then? What will I do without this bond that brings me such sweet-and-sour joy? What will there be left to distract me? What will prevent me from falling back into my black holes?

* * *

I hate that fucking city I'm commuting to. In the car, we call it Mordor. We joke about visiting Sauron every day. Maybe I should move there and be done with it. After all, it has eaten so much of my life. Five years in high school. Yes, five. My first job, my first multinational, another five. Now, again.

But I cannot leave my house behind. I feel it's the only bond I still share with my parents, both gone before their time. I would feel rootless if I leave it. It defines me, it's my soul, it's my shelter. It protects me from all evil. I cannot sell it. I cannot move to Mordor, not in a million years! I prefer to torment myself.

The first snow is here and the twenty-minute walk to and from the pick-up point has become an ordeal; crossing the railroad, a nasty business. I leave in the dark of morning and return in the dark of night. At the insane hour I quit my home there's not a soul on the streets, except for the bread trucks and a few stray dogs that sometimes bark at me, scared of my hood.

The road is icy and I can't see where I place my foot. It may be a frozen muddy puddle; it may be a glazed, slippery slope. I curse my luck and keep on going. There's nowhere to run, except inwardly. I take refuge inside my head and keep on walking. I have once read a short SF story about a man who invented a machine, a sort of teleporting box, able to create an alternate reality. A machine that could bring any fantasy to life, on sensorial level. And the man, instead of projecting paradisiac contexts, imagined a harsh environment, with strong winds and a perpetual winter that were making his mere survival a challenge, only so that he could better appreciate what he already had in his real life.

It's almost my case, only backwards, somehow. Sometimes I think I was born into this world only to pay old debts and learn patience. The patience of the stone.

I have started to consider the possibility of leaving the corporate world. I'm sick and tired of this greedy, paranoid environment, where you have to watch your back constantly. I could return to teaching in elementary school. I don't value much my current work. It seems to me that anybody could do it. I can't self-evaluate. At least in Accounting, although it was repetitive, boring and claustrophobic, it was commensurable; I knew my value, I knew what I was worth.

I will never be more than I am now. A servant. A chamber pot carrier for X and Y, different characters that are no better than I. I doubt I have what it takes to become more. The political astuteness. The shrewdness. The lack of scruples. I'm smart enough to realize I'm not smart enough.

But will I be able to give up to the masochistic pride of being a corporate soldier, from which the sole who benefits is the employer? Will I be able to start over? I have no professional prestige, now, that's for sure… I'm not getting any younger. In school, I could be "Miss", like Taenia, my chemist friend from Quality. I could wear skirts and work only half of day. Seventy two days of vacation per year…

But the pay is poor. I will have to be splendidly impecunious again.

I haven't decided anything yet. It's just something I consider in the mornings when the wind embraces me from all sides and I'm close to breaking my neck in the darkness.

* * *

I'm always on autopilot when walking home, I always follow the same paths, I cross the streets at the same points. My feet are in charge while my mind wanders. My inner world is infinite; the palace of my chimeras is populated with delightful sceneries now. Most of them are various scenarios revolving around seeing him again. All highly improbable and pretty wild but wonderful nevertheless. I wish I would dream more about him but I don't sleep enough during the night to dream. And when it happens, so very seldom, I'm terribly happy the entire day.

I should have been cured by now and yet I am not. It's insane, it's unhealthy, this obsession. I should be cured and go on with my life. He's unattainable to me, he's intangible, he's my Fata Morgana. Still, I cannot flush him out of my system. I miss him. I miss him so badly that there are moments when I feel like whining, as a lost puppy.

I would have loved to learn from him anything he would have been willing to teach me. I would have loved to learn only by observing him in silence, from afar. He might have even been amused by my ardent inclination to give him the full benefits of my inexperience!

It's freezing and the backpack is heavy on my shoulder. It's Friday night and I carry a whole week's tiredness on my back. My homeward route intersects at some point with the city's ring road. This is where I have to wake up from my daydreaming in order to cross safely to the train station and farther on, to the railroad.

This car is parked in my way so I have to divert my trajectory slightly to pass by it. It's a big, black Volvo that looks like a sleeping beast. Headlights off, engine on. As if prepared for a bank heist. When I'm close enough to distinguish the license plate, I freeze on the spot. My heart stops then restarts beating frantically. I raise my eyes slowly to look in the direction of the driver. It's dark inside, but I know that he can see me. For indefinite seconds, long as an eternity, we just stare at each other through the windshield.

I pull out my phone and text him rapidly.

"Are we eloping?" I add a smiley face, to make the joke more obvious.

A light flicker inside tells me he's got the message. The answer is instantaneous.

"No. Get in."

Of course not. Who still elopes these days?! It's so out of fashion!

With faltering steps, I reach for the passenger door. My knees have just turned to jelly.


	3. Chapter 3

"Dans vos silences j'entends des cris/ In your silence I hear screams,  
Dans vos absences je sens l'ennui/ In your absence I sense boredom,  
Dans vos errances des interdits/ In your wanderings, interdictions,  
Qui vous démembrent et nous détient/ That dismember you and untie us."

(Les Voiliers Sauvages De Nos Vies – Vaya Con Dios)

* * *

The car door closes firmly behind me and I feel as if I were encapsulated in a dreamlike atmosphere, as if I had stepped inside that teleporting box for real. Inside is warm and smells of good cologne and well-pampered car. The engine purrs soothingly, obediently, like a tamed feline and the luminescent dashboard touches everything with an eerie glow, adding to the surreal sensation.

I don't know what to say. I'm shocked by his unexpected appearance. Why has he chosen to do it? To show up like this? My town is part of his homeward route and maybe he has only just thought of it. That is a possibility, but it doesn't seem likely. He doesn't usually act on impulse.

Oh, but I know too well when I'm clutching at straws!

" _Don't you dare get your hopes up…"_

I sheepishly look at him and see that he watches me intently, with a little smile. His eyes are warm and mocking.

He looks good. Thinner. Grayer. He's wearing black jeans and one of his amazing shirts. He looks good, damn him, and I wish he weren't! I wish he'd be an antipode to the male pin-up standard, I wish he were as ugly as Quasimodo, so that no other woman would give him a second look. Ever.

If I were to be honest with myself, I had to admit that I've - unjustifiably - hoped I would be among the exquisitely few women who'd found him attractive. Because in a semi-self-derogatory way, I fancy myself as being so special and unusual, that's why. Because he is so fucking amazing that I want exclusive rights, that's why.

And as it has oh – so - disappointingly turned out, there is actually a plethora of us, all smitten and beguiled, enticed by the same things: his intelligence, the edge of menace about him that actually hides a teddy bear core, his latent, 'promissory' energy.

"Good evening, Isabella..."

His voice is even and smooth and a million times better than I remembered it. Hearing it again so closely, after so long, triggers something inside, so quick, so abrupt, like a falling. Suddenly, I become agitated, breathless, like there's no time, like there's no tomorrow… I watch him squarely now and feel as if I couldn't look at him enough; I'm so thirsty for him, I have been for so long and I'm greedy to sate my eyes, to absorb as many details as possible. To filter them in my mind when he'll be gone.

I attempt to keep my face composed, not to reveal my true inner state but my voice betrays me. I don't trust myself to say more than "hi".

"How are you?"

There are carefulness and warmth in his voice. And traces of amusement, of course.

My throat is dry and I swallow hard. As always, when it comes to speaking with him, I turn into an idiot. I turn my gaze away from him and stare blankly through the windshield.

"I've been better…"

I pause then add in a whisper: "And much worse."

Of course he already knows that - he knows it with that unerring instinct of his that also tells him what drives people.

"And,"- he emphasizes the 'and'- "physically?"

" _Oh, Lord… He wants to talk physically._ _I want nothing more than to get physical with you, thank you very much!"_

"My health has been good in the last months. No major setbacks. I'm just a bit tired."

" _I'm very tired, milord. I didn't ask for this to happen, you know… I didn't ask for this love. Not so late in life, anyway. Not when I had my plate full already. I'm too old for this crap. The guessing games, the endless questions, the pain; yet I hold no defense against them. Against you… You are a walking, talking contradiction. Fire and ice altogether. You let me close and then you cut me off. You give me something then you take it back, without any explanation, not even the polite lie."_

I clear my throat.

"The summer though…well, it was particularly hard," I hear myself answer unsteadily as painful flashbacks quickly succeed in my mind.

" _It makes me sick just to remember it. My skin on fire… Literally. Not once, not twice, but thrice… that evil medication making me even worse…you, gone…my heart burnt to ashes…"_

"Sorry for that. It was never my intention to cause any harm…" he says softly, with a barely perceptible pause in the conversation. I exhale, almost audibly.

"It's not your fault. Not entirely, anyway." The tentative joke has more bitterness in it than I intended. "You could have stayed."

"I would have left eventually. You know this."

We're almost fighting now, which is absurd.

"Yes," I whisper and my voice is barely there. "I know it."

Things have gotten too heavy too soon and a change of subject is in order; I wait quietly for him to lead further the conversation, acutely conscious of his presence, of his breathing next to me.

I look at him again only to realize once more that he still remains something of an enigma to me. I imagine him so serious, down-to-earth and realistic, with clear, stable values in life. Analytical to the point of scheming. Painstakingly methodical. The protector for whom I have long waited for. I'd like him to soothe my scars and promise me that he will never leave me wounded.

But he has been involuntarily wounding me from day one.

His voice – ah, his voice! – beckons me back to reality.

"How's the new guy treating you?" He has inserted some lightness into his tone.

"All right, I guess. He knows my name."

He laughs at me softly. I want to say that he is twice the size of this new guy; twice the size, and surely twice the man; but then, I am forced to admit that in my more besotted moments, I think he is twice any man on the face of this Earth.

"He's a bit looney, though… He has no moral compass. Throws fits, commits indiscretions. I don't think he cares much about what others think of him."

" _Unlike others I could name…"_

"Yeah… I've heard some of that. And how's that boss of yours doing?"

I sigh again.

"You know…back in your days in office, this was the only thing you would ask me: about my boss. Is he in? Where is he? What is he doing? You never asked how I was doing… At some point, I even wanted to make a T-shirt. On the front: 'My boss has arrived.' On the back: 'He hasn't.' But I feared you might not have tasted the joke."

"Probably I wouldn't have."

He loves a great sense of humor, but never at his expense.

"Well, we'll never know it, now, won't we?"

"No." A heartbeat. "We won't."

His tone is uncompromising and I feel like I'm wizening. He is never coming back. I know that, of course, but it's not comfortable to be reminded. I breathe, defeated, and I force my mind back to the discussion.

"I don't particularly like him. My boss. Is something unnatural about him, like he's forcing himself to be a good guy. To be compassionate, impartial. I don't believe that's his true nature. But equally true is that I could have ended much worse. If I had returned in Accounting, probably I would have been long gone by now."

The neutral subjects help me; I have slowly begun to relax. But then he shifts a bit in his seat and the frisson of excitement that consequently shivers through me is disconcerting and out of the proportion to the event itself.

"Is he pleased with you, working hard, like a good girl?"

"Well, I don't know about that… I have been working hard for years and that didn't get me far. At the risk of gaining your disapproval, I confess that I have been indulging lately."

"Maybe it's time to quit working hard and start working smart."

I laugh. He is funny. That is a large part of the attraction, of course. He's funny but he also has a point.

" _Yeah, you should talk about it! You work harder than anyone I know, completely ignoring the fact that one day you're going to die. You're not a man, you're a damn machine."_

Living for the moment is not his strong suit.

"Yeah, maybe...but I don't think I have the level of ambition you would deem satisfactory."

I have questions, a thousand or so, that I would like to ask, but I force myself to be patient. Perhaps subconsciously, I don't even want to know the answer to some of them.

Like, why has he come? Has he come to tell me to gather my toys and go play in someone else's backyard? Has he come to assess me with a fresh eye?

Oh, to hell with it! I'm so happy that he is here that I'm more than willing to ignore the elephant in the room. Or the elephant in the car, to be precise.

Unfortunately, he clips my wings with surgical precision next:

"It's late. Let's take you home."

"There's no need to…"

But he has already put the car into gear. I insist, a bit alarmed.

"The road to my house is dreadful! You will break your car in two!"

He keeps silent for a beat then adds very-very quietly.

"I think I can deal with a few bumps in the road, wouldn't you say?!"

I know danger when I see it, even when it comes wrapped up in a gentle smile. _"God",_ I think. _"He can be so severe…"_

So severe and so off the mark! I'm not abashed by his sternness. On the contrary, I secretly thrive on it. He doesn't know how I need, how I crave discipline, discipline that is imposed on me, in order to feel secure. I need order and tranquility; to be looked after, in an old-school way by a classic man's man.

Oh, the hunger to belong!

"All right," I say shyly. "Just as long as you don't hate me afterwards."

He smoothly maneuvers the car back into the traffic and I watch him doing it, completely mesmerized. It's like a dance; a slow, delicate, perfectly synchronized dance. I watch him and almost forget how to breathe. Maybe he has picked up on my mood, because when he speaks again, it's as if he were weaving an irresistible spell.

"Besides, I was under the impression I have some test to perform…. Weren't you interested in seeing my driving skills?"

I bit my lip to prevent myself from smiling. Inexplicably and intense, like a smoldering, like a sickness, I have yearned to see him drive. He knows it and he is now granting fulfillment of this impudent, bizarre desire that has been long eating at me.

"What better surface to prove myself than a little macadam then?"

"It's not macadam. It's cobblestone. With lots of holes in it. Or more like crevasses…"

I'm nervous again so I talk gibberish.

"I'll consider myself warned," he interrupted firmly. "Which way?"

I give him the directions and then abandon myself to the secret pleasure of watching him. A sudden freedom pervades me, as if nothing said in this car would matter afterwards, so we could say anything, anything at all. Which is not true, of course, but as long as I can listen to his voice, imagine the warmth of his body so near, anything else really doesn't matter much.

I feel safe. I trust him with my life. I have faith in him but this extreme belief also exposes my heart and makes me defenseless.

I admit that I have made mistakes – quite a few - in dealing with him. And I will make more. Big ones. But I pay. They are my own mistakes and I'm always paying. No matter how hard I try to reign myself in, I remain as vulnerable, silly and idealistic as ever. A dreamer. Imagination is the highest kite one can fly and mine has probably reached the Moon by now.

But if I could only learn to think twice before I speak! Or write…

In the last few months, I have given myself so many ultimatums, that I've lost count. Each more 'final' and more ineffective than the previous one. _"This the last time I reach out to him. This message is the last… Don't text him!… Not today… Not again! Don't you dare touch that phone! No! No! Don't!.. Damn!…_

 _Alright, then. Just this once…"_

And yet, how unhappy am I when I manage to refrain! Stoicism is proving to be a double-edged sword, indeed.

Maybe he's not even here. Maybe this is just a dream. Dreams are so good…that's where hope lies. When you have nothing but dreams, that's all you think about, all that matters, all that takes your mind away from the tedious and sometimes, hurtful routine.

I look at him again. He does seem real.

He's driving, attentive and silent, intent on the tricky road, making me wonder what he's thinking about. I could ask but he won't tell me. It's neither the time nor the place for him to open up. He may never do it; not to me, anyway.

"You're awfully quiet. Are you upset?"

" _Great! Just great! So bland, so easy. So obvious!"_

"No… I'm just tired." Abruptly, he turns his head to look at me and adds with an especially rich tone: "It comes with age, you know…"

" _That's my man! Smart as a whip! Always teasing me, sometimes sharply enough to draw blood!"_

"Some things get better with age."

"Is that so?!"

He feigns incredulity. Maybe he is in a playful mood, after all.

"Yes. Take a good pair of jeans, for example. Or whisky. Or one's self-confidence and the ability to make tough decisions. Empathy, judgement, wisdom, all get better with age. Even one's vocabulary… And since you've brought it, also certain men. But of course, that doesn't fit all tastes."

I'm trying to imply that I'm particular and unique, with the same elegance and subtlety of a cargo truck. His answer is neutral, perhaps as a lid over the topic.

"Taste is a very personal issue."

"One man's food is another's poison." I mutter in accord, pensively. "But I'm not worried about that. I have great taste."

"I'm sure you have…" he says, with just a pinch of sarcasm.

"In men, above all…" I proclaim, with a false and joyful confidence.

He chuckles again, but refuses the gambit.

" _You, stubborn, inflexible man!"_

I can't add anything else to tempt him into argument, because my joyride has reached its end.

"There," I point the direction. "At the corner."

He pulls the car to a stop but still doesn't kill the engine. I hurry to put his mind at ease.

"I would invite you in but then I would have to make you my prisoner, as Calypso did with Ulysses. For seven years or so..."

He laughs softly. "Yeah, right."

I stare at him until he realizes I'm only half-joking.

"That would probably suffice…" I murmur, my voice slow and slurred. I suddenly ache for him. My mouth goes dry with desire.

He laughs again, but the tension in the car has become unbearable.

My eyes openly feast on him. I want him. I know I amuse him, that there is an intellectual attraction, but this is different. This is an animal thing, and I know he isn't really used to it. Perhaps he thinks that most women see the size of him and nothing else. See the size and are repelled by it.

" _With a few notable exceptions, milord…"_

He shifts uncomfortably and then I know I've just committed yet another 'faux pas'. This time, without even opening my mouth.

It looks like the more I try to please him, the more I will fail. He's obviously embarrassed and I regret deeply that he is. I take it as a rejection. A sharp, hurtful one. I know I'm much too outspoken at times and that that creates troubles for him. He is the quiet type and can be sometimes painfully shy until he gets comfortable in his surroundings.

He may also be rusty.

Well, that's alright; I'm not exactly well-oiled either.

"Let me tell you that your generosity is greatly appreciated," he answers in kind, but keeping his voice light with a real effort.

Then there is silence. I lick my lips. _"When in doubt, change the subject."_

"Will I see you again soon?" I ask, mildly.

It flashes through my mind that I sound like a whiny schoolgirl.

"Will see."

He doesn't know yet and he won't promise what he can't deliver.

"Fair enough. Thank you for tonight."

He knows what I mean and that I mean it. It's time to let him go. I don't want to but I must. I lean toward him and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then I just get out of the car and shut the door, without another word.

" _A très bientôt, milord."_

I know what he's going to do now. The best indication of future behavior is past behavior. I've seen it before and he's predictable in this regard. He is going to retreat into his cave, in a cut and dry manner; he will shut down, withdraw and fall silent. He won't call, nor return my texts and I will be placed back up on that shelf to gather dust, to feel wretched and utterly disposable. I'm not yet sure if he's aware he's doing this, that he gets so caught up in his work, in his own emotions and thoughts, that other's aren't even on his mind.

It would be so refreshing to be wrong but I doubt that it will happen. When bad, he truly can be the most heartbreaking of men.

But when he's good, he is amazing. I simply know it. And that is what keeps me here, in this tragi-comical roundabout. He can make a woman feel alive, desired and wanted beyond any measure. Or at least, he succeeds that – without even trying! - with me.

Oh, but not quite tonight!

But then again, he hasn't told me to 'get lost' either.

He may have not given me much, but for once it is something he cannot take back, no matter what: his precious time. And as the taillights of his car are dimming into the night, the verses I have set as my New Year's resolution begin to revolve in my head:

" _Heart, we will forget him!_

 _You and I, tonight!_

 _You may forget the warmth he gave,_

 _I will forget the light…"_

" _Yeah, sure…"_ I snort to myself. _"Like that's ever gonna happen…"_

I smile like a Cheshire cat all the way into the house.

But my heart is still heavy.

Maybe I'm not yet wise enough to appreciate the deliciousness of the suffering.


End file.
